I Got a Sick Brother at Home
by chibiMuffin999
Summary: Steve is sick, just this side of dying, and he needs someone to take care of him. Bucky's the only one he's got, but he's already got his hands full trying to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. He does what he has to do to get them through. (Bucky's POV, non-slash.) -Basically Bucky taking care of Steve, because I've written a lot of Steve taking care of Bucky-
1. Chapter 1

The sun has long-since started to set by the time he punches his card and heads home for the night. Grey-purple shadows are stretching out, languid and lazy, between the buildings as he steps outside, the last hints of pink in the sky already starting to die. He shrugs into his battered old jacket, not bothering with the buttons, and sets off, feet stinging a little with every slap against the hard pavement. It's been one hell of a long day, and it's not even over yet - not by a long shot.

The air is cool and fresh on his face as Bucky slowly saunters home, every joint in his body creaking and protesting their hard use along the way. It's refreshing and bracing and just what he needs right now to wake him up: a brisk late-March breeze that follows him up the street, tussling his damp, sweaty hair and rustling the tatty edges of his second-hand jacket. He closes his eyes for just a second and indulges in it, imagines himself flying high over the city. The illusion is gone when he opens them again. With a sigh, he walks just a little bit faster, ignoring the tug in his right knee that promises to hurt like the devil tomorrow.  
He's in a hurry to get back to the dingy hole in the wall that he calls home. He's not looking forward to it, not really, but he tries to pick up his pace nonetheless.

The instant he shuts the front door of the tenement behind him, Bucky wishes he was still outside.

The hallway air is stiflingly stale and smells faintly like burnt cooking grease. Just like it always does…  
He sighs wearily, plodding up the creaky old stairs, skipping the one that sags in the middle, and taps mudd off the sole of his boot at the door of their miniscule rat-hole of a home.  
The smell is better in here than it was in the hall, but only just. The air still feels heavy and used. There's the faintest scent of the menthol cream he scraped up pennies to buy last week drifting through the place, and he hopes there's enough left in the jar for however much longer this latest bout is going to take.

Bucky braces himself in the doorway before he's gone more than a couple of steps, and stretches hard, shoulders popping with an audible crack. He winces, rubbing at numerous tight, sore spots. It doesn't do any good and he's going to be achy for days... but it's better than nothing.  
He's dirty, tired, and everything hurts, and he feels about 50 years older than he should - but he's got the extra 5 dollars in his pocket he was promised, so he supposes it's all worth it in the end.

Bucky hadn't really wanted to take the extra shift tonight, hard as they can be to come by these days... not with Steve down the way he is… but they need the money.  
Rent has to get paid, food has to get put on the table. Hell, Steve probably needs a doctor again soon, especially if he doesn't come out of this on his own in the next day or two. Bucky's not about to let Steve die just because he got dealt a busted body. He'll do what he has to do, no matter how tired it makes him. That's what friends do.  
Hadn't made him any less uneasy about leaving Steve on his own for 13 and a half hours in the middle of a wicked fever though…

Bucky had considered his options when his boss had asked him if he wanted to work extra time, weighed the risks, and rolled the dice, hoping Steve would still be among the living when he got home.

He's never sure what the right choice is when this happens, when Steve's dangling over the abyss like now, but he does his best to fumble along.

Exhaustion is threatening to tug Bucky down into a chair, threatening to make him forget that he's still got plenty to do tonight. He stays upright, but drags his feet, worn out and not looking forward to spending the rest of the night sitting vigil over his friend's bed. He hates himself a little for thinking like that -for resenting Steve for something he can't do anything about- but can't help himself. Bucky's been running non-stop for days, either working or taking care of an unresponsive lump of Steve who wheezes worryingly all night.  
He's tired.

With a sigh, he glances out their tiny, leaky window... and for a brief, heady moment he considers throwing it wide, letting the fresh, brisk evening in. He thinks it might even do Steve some good, a bit of fresh air... but he stops short of actually opening the latch. His hands clench helplessly against his jacket and he turns away, pulling the raggedy thing over his shoulders and tossing it over the back of the less broken of their kitchen chairs.

Not today.

Even the early spring sunshine wasn't quite warm enough to thaw the mild chill that lingers in the air after a rough winter, and even that is gone now. As bad as the stuffy, dusty air of the tiny apartment is, the cold that has been slinking in through newspaper-stuffed cracks and drafty windows all winter would be worse. Any chill is dangerous. He won't take any stupid chances with it now, much as he feels like he's about to suffocate in here.

He glances around. Nothing's been disturbed since he left. No fresh sketches left half under the busted old couch they dragged up here last fall out of a dumpster. No signs of used dishes in the sink.  
Figures.

Their tiny shoebox of an apartment is still in the dim dusky light of the evening, and he finds himself fretting, as usual, about what he'll find when he finally checks on Steve.  
The punk is probably asleep, the same as he was when Bucky went to work this morning - burning up and weak as a kitten. He's resigned to it at this point. It's too much to hope that Steve will have recovered already, that he'll be up and awake... and the other alternative… he doesn't think he could survive that.

Bucky honestly can't remember the last time Steve was awake more than an hour or two at a time in the last week. Steve's been down with one illness or another all winter, always is, but this one has been particularly nasty. Bucky thinks it's probably that flu that was going around the city like a wildfire. The one he, as usual, managed not to catch - but it would be just like Steve to attract dangerous germs like a sickly little magnet. Whatever it is he's got, it's knocked Steve out cold, and is threatening to flatten him completely.  
Bucky really, _really_ hates this city sometimes.

"Steve?"  
He peers around the doorway of the bedroom they share, (they can't afford luxuries like individual bedrooms - not if they want to eat on a regular basis) and sees a shock of pale hair sticking out every which way, surrounding a slack face that's both much too pale and much too hotly flushed for his liking. Fortunately, Steve's still buried under the ratty old quilt Bucky sweet-talked out of one of their neighbors last year, so he's still sweating off the worst of the fever.  
"Hey kid, I'm home." He tries again. "You hungry?"  
No reply. He'd be alarmed, if not for the unsteady rise and fall of the thin chest under the raggedy heap of blankets on the bed. The faint wheezing inhale and stuttered exhale. Kid can't be dead if he's breathing...  
Bucky hadn't really been expecting a reply, honestly, but he always tries anyway. Steve's been dead to the- … he's been real sound asleep just about every time Bucky's come in lately. It'll take a lot of harassing and a lot of noise to get Steve up. He'll try again when he has something hot and soothing to offer.

Bucky retreats to the kitchen and starts some broth heating on the stove. Mrs. Hanson down the hall gave them a big pot of the stuff when Steve first started to show signs of sickness, and they've been slowly burning through it ever since. They're down to just a couple of mugs' worth of the stuff now, but Bucky's been pouring it down Steve's throat like it was the secret to life itself every chance he gets.  
Mrs. Hanson's a real sweet lady in Bucky's opinion - three kids and a dead husband, but she tries to look out for 'my boys in 43B' whenever she can. Mrs. Hanson can't do much for them, not when she's got three mouths to feed at her place and not much to stretch between them... but she always sends food of some kind -whatever she can spare- whenever Steve's down for the count.  
She's a real sweet lady.

Bucky washes his hands the way Steve's mama taught him to, back when she was still around and still well enough to do it. Sarah Rogers had been a nurse, and if there was one thing she had known better than anybody, it was looking after Steve. He's careful to wash all the way up to his elbows, rolling his shirtsleeves back. He still stinks of sweat and dirty Brooklyn streets, but at least he can see the pale, calloused skin of his fingers through the grime now. That'll have to be good enough.

Mug of steaming broth in one hand, a slice of what remains of their slowly-turning-stale loaf of bread in the other, Bucky ducks back into the bedroom, turning on the flickering, unreliable lightbulb high up on the wall. For once, it stays on after a token struggle.  
It's a lot easier to wrangle and feed Steve when he can see him.

"C'mon kid, rise and shine. Eat somethin' for me." He badgers Steve gently, hauling him upright and giving him a careful shake. Steve's head lolls loosely on his shoulders. His eyes don't open, but he coughs harshly against Bucky's sleeve, which Bucky tries to take as acknowledgement. "Wake up, Rogers. Can't sleep _all _day. Up an' at 'em."  
He jostles Steve's shoulders a little more, tapping his hand against Steve's cheek in what may be the world's least aggressive slap. It seems to work  
Steve stirs just faintly, blinking hazy eyes open. He almost looks crocked out of his mind, and Bucky thinks, just this side of hysterical, that it'd be hilarious if it wasn't so terrifying instead.  
"That's right ya' little jerk. No more nappin'. Sit up for me."

Steve blinks again and his eyes slowly seem to find focus, though they're still glassy as hell. Bucky doesn't like the way his eyelids are still drooping, or how dark the circles under his eyes are, despite at least 14 hours of sleep today alone.  
_Fucking hell, you're a mess…_ he thinks, but doesn't say.  
He knows he's not going to get any sleep tonight either.

"Sit up, I said, Rogers."  
Steve wriggles as upright as he can get, trying to oblige, and Bucky helps him the rest of the way. "You been up at all today?"

Steve squeezes his eyes shut, like the dim light overhead hurts his eyes, then drags them open again.  
"No…" He croaks, voice cracking, adam's apple bobbing drunkenly as he swallows around the dryness in his throat. "When… when'd you get back?"

"Half hour ago." Bucky says.

Steve coughs before he can speak.  
"Coulda woke me up… Don' need sleep..." he mutters.

Bucky doesn't mention that he already tried to get Steve up once and got nowhere. There's not much point.  
He shrugs as easily as he can.  
"Nah, I figured I'd wait til I got dinner ready. Let sleepin' punks lie, and all that." It's only half a lie, and Steve's too disoriented to know the difference. The kid just nods, then wavers dizzily, like he's lost his bearings. His bony chin dips briefly, but shoots back up as he catches himself dozing. Bucky presses the slab of bread into his thin hands before he can drop back off, and nudges them upward, toward Steve's mouth.

Steve eats just about whatever he can get his hands on when he's well, and with impressive gusto... though he never has stopped shoving whatever he thinks he can spare at Bucky with the reasoning that Bucky's bigger and works hard every day, so he must need the extra. And while it may well be true that Bucky's often hungry and sure he could use more to eat -who couldn't these days?- Bucky's body isn't actively trying to murder him on a monthly basis -unlike Steve-, so he's not having any of this self-sacrificing bullshit out of his best friend.  
It's when Steve gets listless and his appetite starts to go that Bucky really gets worried.

When Steve can barely get the bread to his mouth, struggles to swallow, and almost chokes on his broth… then Bucky might occasionally suddenly find religion.

_He's all I got. _he growls silently to whoever is listening, eyes glued darkly to the shaking twig of a man that's only-somewhat-successfully trying to choke down a mug of watery soup in front of him.  
_You can't take him. I don't care what crap they preach about givin' and takin' away. You can't have him. You hear me? He ain't done yet._

It's always the same one-sided conversation in his head. He always swears and begs and sweats, and Steve always somehow pulls through. It's become something of a winter ritual, some thread of normalcy, of hope, to drag him through another ugly episode.  
If death wants to come for Steve Rogers, it's got to go through Bucky Barnes first, and he's gonna put up one HELL of a fight.

"Buck…" Steve's thready voice draws him back to reality. The mug is empty, held out towards him. The bread is gone. Steve's hands still shake, but they're a little steadier now. Bucky takes the mug, thumbing over the little fractured crack in the top edge of it, feeling just that tiny bit better about things. It's like a miniature victory, getting food into a sick Steve and keeping it there. Most of the broth seems to have _actually_ gotten into Steve this time, instead of half of it spilling down his front... even if there are a few new thin amber-colored drips on the bedding. Bucky brushes them away absent-mindedly. He'll wash the blankets later. When Steve doesn't need to use them 24-7 anymore. When he's well.  
He doesn't ever think of _if_. _If_ is a dangerous word. It's not allowed near Steve when he's like this.

He gently scruffs a hand through Steve's hair instead, relieved when there's a feeble attempt to batt him away. "Feel any better, twerp?"

Another cough is his answer, but it doesn't threaten to knock Steve over this time, so another tiny victory is added to his tally.  
"Feel like shit now, instead of like nothin'. That count?" is the slightly woozy reply. Another cough.

Bucky laughs, almost genuine. He likes it when Steve's fire starts to come back, even if it's only in little flickers. It's a good sign that he's going to turn the corner soon. That he's going to be ok.

Bucky stands up from the bedside with a muffled groan, and flinches at the way his knees crackle under his weight. His back twinges in protest, but he ignores it. Everything hurts. It's just the reality of his existence. He deals with it.  
Steve doesn't appear to notice the noise or his flinch. That goes into the bad column. Steve is always watching him like a hawk, making unhappy noises and guilty faces whenever Bucky shows how bone-weary he is most days. It never bodes well if Steve's honestly not paying attention.

"You better be awake when I get back y'little jackass, you hear me?" Bucky grumbles goodnaturedly, though he's not going to hold his breath, stumping back into their tiny kitchen and depositing the mug in the sink. He'll wash it later.

When he comes back, bowl of cold water and an old towel in hand, Steve's eyes are glazed again and his cheeks are hotter than they should be. Bucky sighs. Mops at the sweat on Steve's forehead.  
The kid honest-to-god sighs when the wet rag hits his skin. It's like relief personified.  
"Christ, Rogers… you're about on fire." He dips the towel again and swipes it over the back of Steve's sweaty neck. He'd swear he can hear it sizzle.

Steve's glassy eyes dart up, and they're only half lucid, but he's grinning, big and stupid, and something tight in Bucky's chest twists so hard it hurts.

" 'M too hot…" Steve mutters, head lolling forward a bit. Bucky eases him back down against the pillows and tucks him in.

"Yeah… I know, kid, I know."

* * *

_**A/N: I've written a lot of stories about Bucky's post-Winter Soldier recovery, especially about Steve taking care of him. Steve standing by his friend no matter what and taking emotional hits that would kill a lesser man because dammit, this is BUCKY. He'd do damned near anything for Bucky.  
I still feel like that's important and worthy of writing about. But I also wanted to explore Bucky taking care of Steve. The other half of that dynamic. This story is just that.**_

**_More chapters coming. Enjoy :)_**


	2. Chapter 2

"I ain't comin' in, I said." Bucky repeats. The old lady downstairs has a phone, and she's willing to let him use it now and again if he asks real nice and calls her 'ma'am' with all the sweetness and charm he's got in him. She's in the next room muttering to herself about how dreadful it is, poor sweet little thing like the Rogers boy always suffering like this. Never complains that one.  
He tunes her out.

"You gotta come to work, Barnes." The foreman says flatly. "How'm I s'posed to cover you in a couple'a hours? I got work that needs done."

"Look, I'm sorry, I know it's short notice, but I can't leave him alone right now." Bucky answers impatiently. Steve's much worse this morning. He's not leaving. "He's real sick."

"He was sick last month too." The foreman reminds him.

"Look, he's…" Bucky wracks his brain. It's only sort of a lie. "He's my kid brother. I'm all he's got in the world and if I ain't takin' care of him, nobody is. He could die, Vic."

There's a long-suffering sigh on the other end of the line. He braces himself to get fired. It wouldn't be the first time, but he's been working his ass off for this job, and he's tried his best to earn his keep.

"Goddammit Barnes, this is the last time." Vic sighs. It's the same thing he said the last time Bucky called him two hours before his shift, begging to be let off for Steve's sake. Bucky's never told Steve about it, and he's damned well not going to start now. "Take care of the little rat and then get your ass back here." Bucky lets himself breathe again. "-lucky you're a good worker, you big pain in my ass…" Vic is grumbling, but underneath it all, he's a good guy. He cares. Bucky makes a mental note that he owes the guy for this, big time.

"You're the absolute best, Vic. I mean it. You got no idea."

"Oh I got plenty of idea." Vic mutters. "You got three days to get him all better, Barnes. Then you get your ass in here or I replace you. You got that?"

"Yessir." Bucky just stops himself from saluting. Vic can't see him, he remembers. "Thank you. Honestly. The best."

"Yeah, yeah." Vic hangs up on him. Bucky lets out a sigh of relief and lays on the thanks extra thick to their neighbor, who insists on sending him upstairs with a couple of cookies from the tin she keeps in her cupboard. Bucky saves them both for Steve.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: One more page for today, since I'll be gone most of tomorrow. (Poor Steve. Poor Bucky.)**_

* * *

"C'mon, _breathe_ you little asshole!" Bucky's never been known for keeping his language particularly clean -except for in front of ladies and little kids- but it gets positively _foul_ when he's scared. Like right now.  
"_Goddamn_ you Rogers, don't you fucking die on me! You are going to get through this with me. Yes you fucking are! Come _on._"  
Steve's chest is shuddering and he's gasping and wheezing, but he's not getting air, and Bucky's panicking, and that's only making it worse. He hauls Steve up against him, knees bracketing Steve's bony hips and sucks in a huge lungful of air, trying to calm down enough that his heart's not pounding out of his ribs.  
"In and out, in and out. _BREATHE_ Steve, you can do this!" Steve's trying. He wheezes hard, one hand digging into his own chest trying to match the half-manic deep breathes Bucky's taking, his ribs pressing hard into Steve's back. "C'_mon_ Steve!"

Finally there's a weak, ragged inhale that sounds promising, followed by a scattershot of coughing. When that clears, Steve is limp and boneless against him, but he's breathing, however shallow and jagged.

"Atta boy." Bucky soothes, patting one hand heavily on Steve's shoulder while Steve wheezes and coughs against him. He feels exhausted, and he can't even imagine how bad Steve must feel. "Atta boy, told you you could do it, ya little shit."

"Hate… this" Steve hacks out, head drooping back against Bucky's shoulder. He looks utterly miserable. It tips to the side, trying not to cough right in Bucky's face. He mostly succeeds. "You … you should be ...at work." Steve looks frustrated. His hand is still faintly clutching at his own chest, as if willing it to work properly for once. "Not… babysittin' me…"

"What, sick of lookin' at me already?" Bucky tries to smirk, but he only half manages it. He lets Steve lean on him, not sure he trusts the kid not to go into another attack just yet. "I ain't that ugly."

"Need-" More coughing. "-you need sleep too." Steve knows him too well to believe Bucky sleeps when he does. There's no real point in bullshitting him about it.

"I'm a tough li'l bastard, Rogers. You just shut the hell up and get better, then I'll sleep like a rock. Promise."

"Rocks… don't snore."

Bucky snorts. That's the Steve Rogers he wants to see. The snarky little smart-ass with a mouth way too big for his own good. That means Steve's feeling at least that little bit better.  
"Yeah, well this one does. You want some more of that soup Mrs. Hanson sent over? Think we still got some."

Steve looks pained at the thought.  
"I'm proud… can… swallow air… right now." He manages with a definite rasp, sounding like his throat's too tight, and he's breathing through a straw. "No soup."

Bucky just leans his head back against the wall and lets out a breath that he hopes doesn't sound as weary as he feels. His hand pats absently against Steve's shoulder again.  
"Alright, Steve. No soup. Just keep swallowin' that air and we'll call it good."


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky jolts awake. He's not sure when he nodded off, but given the extra kink in his back and the stiff awkward set of his head, he's probably been out for a couple of hours. He's currently gracelessly drooped over the foot of the bed, his back half loosely filling a hard kitchen chair beside it.

He can hear Steve still wheezing along without moving his head, and it's oddly, selfishly comforting. He hates that Steve's lungs keep turning on him. Hates that the poor guy can't even jog without passing out… but damned if the noisy, difficult breath isn't a good way to make sure the little bastard is still breathing.|  
Bucky feels a little bit bad about finding Steve's wheezy, difficult breath comforting… but it's better than the alternative silence that he's always just a little afraid he'll wake up to.

Steve's skin is burning hot against his arm when he shifts, and Rogers is muttering in his sleep. Still feverish then. Bucky sighs, straightening up with a groan, and goes to fetch the bowl and towel.  
Another long night is just getting started.


	5. Chapter 5

Steve's awake and looking at him the next time he wakes up, not realizing he's fallen asleep. The bowl of water, towel still half draped over the side, is at his feet. Damp is slowly seeping out of it onto the dank floorboards. He nudges it all the way into the bowl with a soggy _plop_ and straightens up, stretching high above his head.  
His back is pissed. Great. He'll be feeling that for weeks.

"Bucky, you ok?"  
Oh yeah. Steve's feeling better. He's making his guilty face.

"Great. Never better." Bucky lies. He can't hide the grimace when he hits a hard knot in his shoulder and it pops audibly.  
Steve notices. Of course he does.

"Liar." Steve says, without heat. He's used to this, even if he doesn't like it.

"You're lookin' less like dog shit." Bucky informs him matter-of-factly, choosing to ignore Steve's reply. He lays the back of his hand against Steve's forehead and is relieved to find it much, much cooler than last night. The fever has finally broken. Steve's gonna make it.

"Thanks. Don't flatter me or anything."

"Wasn't gonna." Bucky grins, the dark cold something that was clutching at his insides finally uncoiling.

"How long was I loopy this time?"

"Wait, you mean loopier than usual, right?"

"Jerk."

Bucky grins wider.  
Steve's still pale and a little listless. He still looks sick… but he's going to be ok now.

"Week an' a half, round about." Bucky offers him the cup of water he filled the night before, and Steve downs it gratefully. "Don't think you're gettin' up just yet, though, smartass. You get _all the way _better, then you can go get your ass beat behind a diner or something."

"Aww, now what'm I supposed to do on Saturday night?" Steve plays along, even if he'll usually insist that he's just standing up for what's right. Bucky gets that he doesn't want to just run all the time, but he really wishes Steve would learn when and how to keep his damned mouth shut with guys three times his size.

"Try breathin'. I hear it's the latest thing."

"Buck… thanks." Steve's looking at him the same way he did when Steve's mama died two years ago. He'd been trying so hard to do it all on his own, to prove that he didn't need anybody. Bucky hadn't really pushed, just reminded him that he still had family. That he didn't _have_ to do this alone.  
The big blue doe-eyes had told him how grateful Steve was. He's never regretted it for a moment.  
"I'm sorry-"

"Oh no. No. None'a that shit again." Bucky cuts him off. "You're sorry for what? That your body's an asshole sometimes?" He drops himself back into the chair, fixing Steve with a hard look. "Somebody's gotta keep you outta trouble. You're welcome."

"Just hear me out-" Steve starts, staring at his hands. Bucky sighs. He already knows where this is going. "You shouldn't have to miss work, or sleep… or dates, or … or whatever, just because of me. I'm always gonna get sick. Just- … you shouldn't have to give up everything else just because of that."

"Right. I'm just gonna go off and leave you here when you're sick as a dog and hope you don't keel over while I'm gone? You kidding me right now, Rogers?"

"You deserve better than this, Bucky. You shouldn't be living in a rat-hole little _dump_. You work hard. You could-"

"Oh shut the hell up, Steve." Bucky interrupts again. He's got pretty much no patience left in him at this point, and certainly not enough to listen to Steve's self-loathing garbage for probably the 80th time. "You're my best friend. You think I'd just walk out on my best friend? What kinda asshole you think I am?" He stretches again, trying vainly to pop that persistent kink in his spine. No dice.

"It's _because_ you're my best friend that I'm saying this, Buck." Steve insists. His eyes are earnest and wide, if a bit sunken. He coughs a little into his hand. "You can't just stop havin' a life because of me every winter. It's not fair."

"Life ain't fair." Bucky shrugs. "You think anybody's makin' me? You. Are. My. Best. Friend." He draws out each word, like maybe Steve just didn't catch it the first time. "What part'a that are you not getting? You're the pain in the ass brother I never had, Steve. You're _family,_ ya little twerp. You don't walk out on family."

Steve goes quiet for a few moments, then cracks a weary smile, still looking at his hands.  
"I'm not gonna get anywhere with this, am I?"

"Hell no." Bucky grins at him. "Never do."  
He stands up and groans. His legs have long since lost feeling and he can feel a tingle running up and down them.  
"I dunno about you, but I'm hungry. We still got a couple of eggs left. Think you can keep 'em down?"

Steve nods and lets him change the subject.


	6. Chapter 6

"How's the kid brother?" Vic is standing behind him as Bucky eases his end of a crate down into place. He stands up and cracks his back with a little grunt as the other two guys wander off to size up the next crate.

"Doin' ok now." Bucky answers, enjoying a moment to catch his breath. He's going to sleep like a dead man tonight, he's already sure. "Got past the worst of it last night, now he's just gotta quit coughin' up a lung all the time an' he's good to go." Bucky beams, despite his weariness. Steve has survived another winter. Life is good.  
"Thanks again, man. You might'a saved his life."

Vic shrugs, his voice dropping a little lower, so only Bucky will hear. "Tell your 'brother' he's a lucky kid, would ya? Not many guys'd take a day off for a pal."  
Bucky goes stiff for half an instant, then schools his face and makes himself relax. Vic is smirking, but he doesn't look mad.  
"Relax, Barnes. I'll call him a brother if you do... Just don't make it a habit, got it?"

"Look… Vic, it ain't like that-" Bucky starts. He knows what Vic must think. He knows how they look from the outside. He also knows that people making assumptions could get somebody who's little and mouthy like Steve very very dead in an alley someplace. Lots of people don't like 'faries' or 'queens' as he's heard them called. Vic just shakes his head.

"Don't care what it is or ain't like. You're a good worker, Bucky. I don't give a shit who you run around with; that ain't my problem. I ain't exactly the church-goin' kind myself, so I got nothin' to say 'bout what you do at home. You just keep showin' up, keep up the good work, and I won't ask questions. Friend, brother, … whatever… I don't give a shit." Vic shrugs noncommittally. " 'S a lucky kid, either way. You tell 'im I said so."

"Yessir." Bucky nods, feeling just a little dazed. "I'll do that… Thanks."

"Yeah, yeah, shut up and get that pallette stacked. Joe an' Tommy are waitin' on ya. Then y'can come kiss my ass if you gotta."

Vic is already gone, barking instructions to another chunk of the crew, before Bucky can think to respond to that.

Vic's alright, Bucky decides, hoisting the corner of a crate that's gotta weigh more than the Empire State Building up over his shoulder. He's a real alright guy.


	7. Chapter 7

**_A/N: Uploading the new chapters now, since I won't be home most of tomorrow. (One more chapter to go after this one. I really enjoyed this story, short and sweet as it may be.)_**

Steve is up and drawing on the couch, wrapped up in the quilt and a beat-up wool sweater, when Bucky gets home. He's still pale, still looks the worse side of worn out, but he smiles and holds up charcoal smudged fingers in a mock salute when the door opens.

Bucky drags off his jacket and chucks it noncommittally at a chair. He misses by an inch.  
"Take it you're feelin' better then?" He asks, retrieving it as smoothly as he can. Steve kindly doesn't chuckle at him, but it's a near thing.

"Somewhere between 'I've felt better' and 'kill me now'... so yeah." Steve grins, and Bucky rolls his eyes. Yep, Steve is being a sarcastic little shit. He's on the mend for sure.

"Good, cause I'm a shitty cook and I'm gettin' tired of eating burned 'food'. Sooner you're up and around, sooner I get to eat real food again."

"What tinned ham and boiled peas? It's not hard to dump a can in a pot and not let it burn, Buck…"

"You _say_ that…" Bucky grins, shrugging at his supposed ineptitude. In all honesty, neither of them can cook to save their lives, but he'll talk up Steve's supposed skills all day if it makes the little punk smile. He needs to see that after the week he's just had. He really really needs it.  
"Vic says hi, by the way."

"What, your boss? …. Was he mad?"

Bucky shrugs. "He wasn't _happy_… but he was pretty swell about it." He thinks about their conversation earlier and a little half-smile creeps onto his face. "He's an alright guy, Vic. Glad I'm workin' for him and not that Dave asshole in the other lot. Dave's a real prick to his guys."

"You keep calling in to work and you might just end up over there." Steve points out, turning the paper in his hands to examine his sketch, then setting it aside. At a glance, Bucky can see it's a doodled view of their kitchen doorway, complete with hard-backed chairs and tiny, half-useless sink.

" '_Just don't make a habit of it._' " Bucky makes air-quotes, shrugging. "That's what he said. Didn't seem to mind, long as it's not all the time. Like I said, Vic's alright."

"Next time, don't call in." Steve tells him earnestly. Like he honestly thinks Bucky will just go off to his job without a backward glance when his best friend is teetering on the brink of death. "Just go to work. I haven't died yet. It'll be fine."

"_Steve._" Bucky shakes his head. Kid's tenacious as a bulldog, he'll give him that. "We just fuckin' talked about this. You get that bad, I'm stayin' here. Come hell or high-water, I'm _stayin'_ where I'm needed. An' if that means they find some other lunkhead to do my job, fine. I'll find another one. You ain't dyin' on my watch, Rogers. And we ain't discussing this again."

"How are you going to find another one, Buck?" Steve refuses to let the topic die now that he's got some strength back. It's annoying and reassuring at the same time. "There's guys around the block looking for jobs. You lose this one, you might not find another one for ages." There's something just a little bit bitter, a little acrid, in his tone when he continues. "God knows I can't…"  
His eyes flicker up to Bucky's face and lock on there. "You gotta eat, same as the rest of us."

"And you gotta breathe, same as the rest of us. If I ain't here to make you, y'might just buy it for good. An' I can't live with that." He holds up his hand to cut off Steve's protests. "Comes to that, I'll figure somethin' out. Now shut up and scoot over before I sock you one."

Steve rolls his eyes, but obliges. He knows Bucky'd probably sooner jump off their roof than actually hurt him, but he also knows when Bucky's really and truly done arguing, and after everything he's just put the guy through, Steve just can't find it in himself to push this again.

"You stink, Barnes." He mutters petulantly, dragging his knees out of Bucky's way.

"Tough shit, squirt." Bucky settles down beside him and splays himself out, loose and weary, with a satisfied sigh. "God it feels good to sit."

"You should do more of that."

"Right. Get right on that." Bucky mumbles, looking drowsy already. He'll get up and throw something into a pot for dinner in a bit, but for now, he's busy dissolving into a mush of weary muscle and bone, melting into the thin, hard couch cushions. "Soon's I remember how t'move."

He's dimly aware that Steve has turned the page of his sketchbook again; the little bound book is a luxury that Bucky scrapes and saves to buy with whatever he's got left at the end of the month. A charcoal stick scratches softly over the paper. He doesn't turn his head. He knows what Steve's drawing without looking up, and if they both know that this bit of 'modeling' is just to give him an excuse to laze around a little longer and relax… well he'll still take it.

* * *

"Looks just like me." Bucky comments, eyes skimming the paper when he finally climbs to his feet with a creak and a groan. "Right down to the dumb-shit look on my face."

"You should quit saying stuff like that." Steve says, not looking up from where he's gingerly adjusting the line of the couch back on the page.

Bucky is already shuffling idly towards the kitchen. Steve knows better than to try to get up and help him. He'd only get shooed right back to the couch anyway. He's still tired enough that he lets it ride.

"Why, you worried you'll get a big head?" Bucky shoots back over his shoulder as he drags their one dented pot towards him. "You're the most modest guy I ever met. Wouldn't worry too much."

"You _know_ what I mean, Bucky." Steve says primly, finally looking up. His lips are pressed into a thin line. "You talk like you're some kind of moron."

"Truth hurts." Bucky shrugs, rummaging a couple of wilted carrots out of the cupboard and half a tin of ham. He considers for a second, then cuts off a small chunk of butter and plops that into the pot as well. Steve can use the calories, even if they don't have much of the stuff to go around.

"Don't give me that!" Steve looks honest-to-god offended. "You got better grades than I did in school and you still read on your dinner-break all the time, when you can get your hands on a book." He's leveling his very best stern face at Bucky, who's doing his very best to ignore it. "I've seen you do it! You're real smart, Bucky, I don't know why you put on this big dumb caveman act."

"The ladies love it." Bucky shrugs. Honestly, he just knows 'smart' won't get him hired in the only jobs there are out there. Strong will. Bosses love big, dumb lugs that they can order around. Guys that won't be gunning for the boss's job. Bucky's good at playing that part. 'Smart' won't put food on the table. 'Smart' won't scare off the creeps that just keep targeting Steve. 'Smart' doesn't impress a pretty girl that's just looking for a good time. So Bucky lets the world think he's slower than a brick, and if he has to pull a trick out of the air to get by… well, he'd rather catch people by surprise when he does.

"You're nuts." Steve sighs, setting his drawing tools aside and letting his head droop against the back of the couch. "Totally 100%, Grade A cuckoo." He says it utterly without malice, just the way Bucky keeps calling him 'jerk' or 'punk' or 'jackass'. It's how they tell each other that everything's ok between them.  
When one of them stops being rough and starts acting polite, the other knows something's really wrong.

"Hey, one of us's gotta be. Keep life interesting." Bucky shrugs. He gives the pot a sharp stir, dribbling a little broth over the side when he taps the spoon. He swipes a finger over it and catches the precious tidbits of nutrition before they can be lost in the sputtering flame of the stove. Can't afford to waste anything just for laziness. He licks it off, swipes his hand over the leg of his pants to dry it, and goes back to straggling two mismatched, chipped bowls and a couple of bent spoons onto the table. He fills two mugs with tap-water and sets those out too.

Given how many people (assholes) think Steve's health problems are all in his head, how many of them would swear the asthma is just insanity making itself known, or even worse, that Steve ought to be put down like a stray dog before he can 'pollute' the gene pool… Bucky's more than happy to play dumb and dippy; to let Steve shine as the smart one. The sane one. Steve's not crazy. He's not broken, unless you count his bum lungs and his heart problems, which Bucky doesn't. And fuck anybody who thinks otherwise, as far as he's concerned.  
Bucky's ok with people thinking he's slow. He's ok with being nothing but the muscle behind the smart-ass little punk with too much mouth, if that's what keeps his friend safe. There's not a whole lot he can do to make Steve's life easier, but he does what he can, and he plays his part. When Bucky plays, he plays for keeps.

"I heard things are getting bad in Germany again." He says, conversationally, as he works. There are rumors about a war brewing in Europe again, running around the stockyards. Bucky doesn't put much faith in rumors, but he's not worried either way. Let them fight their own damned wars this time. The last one cost them both their fathers. He's not planning to get involved, thanks.

"Think it'll be war again?" Steve asks, already following the line of Bucky's thoughts, as he stands up, still bundled in his blanket, and shuffles over to sit down at the table. He's got a dangerous interest in soldiering, and has had since he was just a little kid. Probably because of how his dad died. His mama never stopped telling little Steve stories about his father. The Rogers that had never made it home to meet his son. Bucky's just glad Steve's way too small and way too sick to ever get called up. Brooklyn ain't exactly safe, but it's sure as hell better than the trenches.

"Nah. They're just pitchin' a fit." Bucky shrugs, swiping the spoon through his concoction once or twice more then tipping it out evenly into the two bowls he's laid out. "It'll pass. No way they'd be dumb enough to go for two."

"If it comes to that.. I'm gonna enlist." Steve says distantly. Bucky doesn't roll his eyes, but it's a very near thing.

"Focus on defeating your soup for now, Rogers. Then you can work on soldierin'."

"You're a jerk." Steve grumbles without heat, picking up his spoon.

"Shut your face or feed it, punk."

Steve chooses the latter.


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N: Last chapter, kids. Hope you enjoyed it :) More stories will be coming, I'm sure, as I have time to write them. Thanks again for all the kind reviews!**_

* * *

"Turns out you can still get sick, huh?" Bucky sits on the edge of Steve's bed, a wide comfortable thing now, with plenty of cushion. He's holding out a frankly massive cup of soup. A large frosted-over blue frosted ice-pack rests in the metal hand against his knee.

Steve doesn't trust this mattress he knows: it's too soft. Bucky doesn't blame him. But Steve's just going to have to put up with it, because Bucky's sure as hell not letting him get up for a while.

"Ugh…yeah." Steve groans, big hand flopped over his eyes. "Who knew?"  
He'll probably be over whatever he's got by this time tomorrow, but for now he's hot and nauseous and shivering, and he feels like utter garbage. "At least I'm not... gonna have… a fucking asthma attack."

Bucky smirks, shoving Steve's hand out of the way and laying the ice-pack over his forehead. Steve groans a little louder, but this time it sounds more relieved than pained.  
"Language, punk. Geeze, and here I thought I was the one that talked like a sailor."

"I'm sick. I can swear all I damn well please." Steve mutters, holding the ice-pack in place with one hand as he wriggles upright, accepting the hot soup.

"Ri-i-ight." Bucky grins indulgently. "Whatever you say. Now eat."

* * *

"You know he'd probably throat-punch me if I tried to play nurse?" Clint remarks, not looking up from where he's fussing over the fletching of an arrow.  
Bucky's been in the Captain's room for the last half hour, fussing over him. The others are still not completely sure what to make of that.

"You make a crappy nurse." Natasha counters, without missing a beat. She's just field-stripped and reassembled a pistol, clocking in at just under 15 seconds. _Not bad_… she muses to herself. But she could do better if she tried.  
"Trust me."

"He'd probably at least yell at me, but I don't know about punching." Sam offers as kindly as he can. "Gotta say, though... I didn't think he could even _get_ sick, with that whole super-man thing he's got going on."

"Turns out, nobody's perfect."  
They turn as one to find that Bucky has reappeared in the doorway, empty soup mug the size of a small cauldron in his flesh hand. He drops it on the kitchen counter and himself into a seat.  
"If anybody was gonna beat the odds and still manage to get sick, it'd be that idiot." He somehow manages to turn the insult into an endearment. He always does.

"You sound like the voice of experience." Clint has set the arrow aside and is now fiddling with a throwing knife, testing the balance in his palm. He twirls it once experimentally. "You his official babysitter or somethin'?"

Bucky snorts, running metal fingers through his hair. "Somethin' like that. Stiff breeze would've knocked him over when we were kids. Don't know how many times I thought he was a gonner. Just too damned stubborn to die, thank god."

"You do realize you're probably the only guy on earth that Captain America is willing to let take care of him, though, right?" Sam interjects. The therapist in him likes giving Bucky reasons to feel special. Useful. Bucky needs to be reminded that he's a force for good, not just a killing machine.  
After the crap he's survived, he deserves reminders wherever they come up.

The friend in Sam just wants to make his friend feel better.

"Yeah, that's force of habit, probably." Bucky says easily in answer, even if they all know it's bullshit. "I never gave him a choice about it then. Still don't. I guess he forgot he's bigger'n me now and I can't just bully him into cooperatin'."

"Sure, of course." Natasha's tone is even, but she's obviously not buying a word of it. "I'm sure the king of ' Tis but a fleshwound' just forgot he hates getting looked after. That's plausible."

"Hey," Bucky stretches out his legs and lets his eyes drift shut as he tips his head back. It's a sign of how much he trusts the others that he's willing to literally bare his throat in front of them like this. "Steve's my kid brother. What can ya do?"

"He's not-" Clint starts, but he shuts right back up when Bucky cracks an eye and glares at him.

"Steve's family." He says firmly, shutting the eye again and settling back. "Family takes care of each other. End of story."

Nobody else argues the point with him.


End file.
